d it, but they don't. They ignore it....
I can't think of anything else, my dear. They've got my money: ten
thousand in the Imperium and twenty in Argentinos, and they are using
my name for all they are worth.'

'And if I hadn't asked you to stay after the birds and fishes it
wouldn't have happened.'

'After all, it hasn't come to disaster yet.'

'But it will. It is all coming to a head, and Charles will have to be
the one to suffer for it.'

'I promise you he shan't. He shall have a dozen committees and all the
birds and fishes he requires.'

She could not help laughing. Perhaps, after all, her fears were
exaggerated, but she dreaded Charles's helpless acquiescence in the
plight to which he had been reduced by Mr Gillies's refusal to advance
him a penny outside the terms mentioned in the contract.

'It certainly looks to me,' said Verschoyle, 'as if they wanted to
break him. It wouldn't be any good my saying anything. They would
simply point to their contract and shrug their shoulders at Charles's
improvidence. How much did Mr Clott get away with?'

'A great deal. He had several hundreds in blackmail before he went.
That is why we can't prosecute.'

Verschoyle whistled.

'It is a tangled skein,' he said. 'You'd much better marry me. I
won't expect you to care for me.'

'Don't be ridiculous----'

There came a heavy thudding at the door, and Clara jumped nervously to
her feet. Verschoyle opened the door, and Charles swept in like a
whirlwind. His long hair hung in wisps about his face, his hat was
awry, his cuffs hung down over his hands, his full tie was out over his
waistcoat, and in both hands he held outstretched his walking stick and
a crumpled piece of paper. He dropped the stick and smoothed the paper
out on the table, and, in an almost sobbing voice, he said,--

'This has come. It is a wicked plot to ruin me. She demands a part in
_The Tempest_ or she will inform the police.... O God, chicken, that
was a bad day when you made me marry you.'

Verschoyle picked up his stick and, beside himself with exasperated
fury, laid about the unhappy Charles's shoulders and loins crying,--

'You hound, you cur, you filthy coward! You should have told her! You
should have told her! You knew she was only a child!'

Charles roared lustily, but made no attempt to defend himself, although
he was half a head taller than Verschoyle and twice as heavy. He
merely said,--

'Oo-oh!' when a blow g